


Still Alive

by theacesofspades



Category: The Enemy Series - Charlie Higson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Gen, Jack gets hit in the leg instead of the gut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 00:05:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18354497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theacesofspades/pseuds/theacesofspades
Summary: They fell asleep like that, Floppy Dog in Jack’s arms, Jack in Ed’s arms, tears drying on Jack’s cheeks and blood caking down Ed’s face. They were very small, just the two of them curled up in Jack’s bed, but they were still alive. They were going to make it.





	Still Alive

Bam was dead. Ed’s face was sliced open. Jack was bleeding out.

If he had had time, Ed might have just sat down and started crying. He desperately wanted to, but he had to get Jack home. If he could do this, if they could just make it home, they would be alright. Everything would be alright. If he could just get Jack home.

It had seemed so easy when he had first picked Jack up, when Jack could still walk right, limping but strong. But now Jack had gone past stumbling drunkenly and was just hanging off Ed’s side, dragging his feet behind him.

Ed didn’t know how long they had been walking. It felt like an eternity before he saw Jack’s neighborhood, another lifetime before they made it to his door. It was through some miracle that they didn’t cross paths with any sickos, with anymore people at all.

Ed ached all over. His body was screaming at him, begging him to just drop Jack, just collapse, just stop. His face stung, too, but he knew adrenaline was dampening the pain. He didn’t look forward to when the feeling really kicked in and his body caught up with the fact that his face had been torn open with a meat cleaver.

But then, Jack had it worse.

“Keep talking, Jack, keep talking.” Ed’s breathing came heavy; Jack was nothing but dead weight against his side and the panicked energy that had kept his legs pumping from the back alley to here was slowly fading, leaving him to try to drag Jack down the road with less than no stamina. His arms shook. He was afraid he was going to drop Jack, but he couldn’t. If he put him down now, he would lose him, he could feel it. If they fell here, they weren’t getting back up.

“Jack?”

Jack slurred some response and Ed’s heart fluttered with nerves. He was still alive. Everything was fine if he was still alive.

“You’ve got to keep talking to me, Jack, you gotta’ stay awake.” Ed’s arms strained. They felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets. He could see Jack’s house, his yard as blessedly devoid of sickos as all the others. But it was so, so far away. He felt like crying.

“We’re going home?” Jack managed.

Ed swallowed a gasp. “Y-yeah. We’re going home. We’re going to get you to bed, and then I’m going to fix you up and have you feeling right as rain, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Jack groaned. “Ed, I don’t feel so good.”

Ed laughed shakily. “I know. I know, Jack, I know, but we’re going to get you feeling better. Come on.” There were at the stairs of Jack’s porch now, another impossible obstacle they had to beat. “Come on now, Jack, up we go.”

Jack leaned heavily against him and his feet lagged behind. It took too long, but they eventually made it up the steps and to the door.

“Alright, small rest now, Jack.” Ed eased him down to the porch and leaned him against the wall. “No falling asleep on me, just take a breather.” Ed groaned as Jack’s weight was lifted from him. His shoulders were sore and his arms burned, but he managed to get the key from around Jack’s neck. He jiggled it in the lock and swung the door open.

“Stay here,” he whispered to Jack. He got his gun out and took a step through the door. He couldn’t see anything amiss from the doorway, but it was better to check at least the first floor before bringing Jack in here.

A quick sweep revealed nothing but a fine layer of dust over everything. He didn’t want to think about where Jack’s family was. It was probably for the better that they were nowhere to be found right now. He paused at the mantel on his way back to the front door; the family photos were there, Jack smiling with his parents, Jack smiling with his sisters, Jack smiling with Ed, Jack smiling.

Ed felt a sob bubble up in his chest, but he rubbed hurriedly at his eyes and made for the front door.

Jack was right where he had left him, babbling softly to himself, but still awake. Still alive.

“Come on, Jack.” Ed stashed his gun down the back of his pants, pulled Jack’s right arm over his shoulders, and dragged him up. They both groaned, Ed from strain and Jack in agony. Jack whimpered. “I know, Jack, I know.” Ed gasped. “Come on, just a little bit more.”

Ed dragged him through the door; they stumbled when Jack’s feet caught on the threshold, but Ed kept them up and kept going. He knocked the front door shut. They limped down the hall and into the first floor bathroom. Ed kicked the toilet cover down and lowered Jack gently onto it, then dashed back to the door and hastily closed and locked it behind them. He had only swept the first floor; he didn’t want any nasty surprises from somewhere else in the house getting in at them.

“I’ll be okay, Ed.” Jack slurred. “I’m Iron Jack.” He giggled softly, then groaned and doubled over, grabbing feebly at his torso and his leg. There was no obviously new blood from the shot holes in the belly, but his pant leg was torn and soaked in blood. Even from across the room, Ed could see how it stuck to the laceration on the top of Jack’s thigh; he could certainly smell it.

Ed shushed him. “You got a first aid kit in here?” he asked, already rummaging through the cabinets. He knew from experience Jack’s family’s first aid kit was good enough to come with sutures, but he had no idea where it was. If ever there was an injury, it had seemed to magically appear in Jack’s mother’s hands, ready to go in an instant.

“Hmm?” Jack collapsed sideways against the wall, head lolling. “No. . . . No, don’t think so. Upstairs, maybe?”

Ed nodded tightly. He didn’t want to leave Jack alone, but he couldn’t drag him upstairs yet. He took Jack’s hand and squeezed it tight. “Stay here, yeah?”

Jack nodded and smiled faintly. “S’not like I’m going anywhere.”

“Yeah.” Ed squeezed his hand a last time and slid out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He made his way quietly over to the staircase. He looked up, but he couldn’t see anything from here. He readied his gun, tapped the hilt of the sword in his belt, and began his ascent.

Anything could be up there. Jack’s missing family, random sickos, squatters. He went slow, gun held out ahead of him. The only sound was the occasional creak of the staircase; he still didn’t see anyone. The absence of Jack’s family members was starting to concern him. Where were they?

He made it to the landing and spun a slow circle. Nothing. It was a short walk down the hallway towards the bathroom. Still nothing. He dashed in, not even bothering to shut the door. His goal was simple: in and out, find the first aid kit, grab some towels, get back to Jack.

The view waiting for him drew him up short. There in the mirror was the first glimpse he had gotten of himself for a long time. He looked like something out of the sorts of movies he wasn’t allowed to watch, only he looked much worse. Even the worst of those movies hadn’t looked this real.

The gash on his face had mostly scabbed over, although he couldn’t tell if it was actually properly healing or just solidifying around the bits of tissue still stuck in his cheek. It was still bleeding in some parts, too, oozing thick, black looking blood. His eyes were dark and bruised, his left one swollen completely shut. Greg’s knife had come closer to it than he had realized. He was lucky to still have the eye. The other end of the cut ran down into his mouth, and the left side of his lips were puffed up, too.

If he had seen himself on the street, he would have thought he was a sicko. He winced, and turned away from the mirror. He didn’t want to look at himself any longer. He needed to focus on Jack.

There were some towels on the counter, stacked and folded neatly. They looked almost fresh from the laundry. He could use them to soak up the blood and apply pressure. He was pretty sure you were supposed to apply pressure to wounds that bled. He’d seen that on TV. It hit him suddenly that he hadn’t told Jack to hold the wound shut. Had he been holding it anyway? He’d just have to hope Jack had thought to do that and hurry back to him.

But there was no first aid kit. He rummaged around under the sink, and in the cabinets, and behind the mirror, but it wasn’t there.

If it wasn’t here, it was probably in Jack’s parents’ bathroom. Ed was flooded with apprehension. He and Jack weren’t allowed in Jack’s parents’ bedroom and he’d never seen it. It was an adult-only area. No kids allowed. And now, with adults suddenly a danger and with everything associated with them suddenly carrying bad connotations, intruding on their space filled him with dread. Especially when he didn’t know where they were.

But he couldn’t go back to Jack empty-handed. A few towels wouldn’t save his life. Jack needed him, he was counting on him. Ed couldn’t freeze up again. He wouldn’t.

After a short moment’s consideration, Ed holstered the gun and pulled out Jack’s sword. Whatever had happened to him in the alley, whatever energy he’d been flooded with, it had helped them and it had happened while he was using a sword. If Jack’s parents were in there and they attacked, maybe he would be able to fight again.

Or maybe he would freeze up and die.

Or maybe there wouldn’t be anyone there.

But maybes didn’t find the first aid kit, and they certainly didn’t help Jack.

Ed took a deep breath to steel himself, then headed down the hall towards Jack’s parents’ room.

The door stood in front of him, a barrier and a shield from whatever lay inside. It gave no hint at what was in the room. Ed lay the towels down, turned the handle, and slowly edged the door open with the tip of the blade. A horrid smell hit him like a wall. Something sour, mold mixed with a generous dose of fecal matter and urine. He had to pause in the doorway while he coughed up bile. He spat, then pushed on.

He had expected the room to be dark, but the shades on the window had been ripped down and a low light shone in from outside, dimmed by the smoke rising through the sky. Between the smoke and the time of day, it wasn’t a lot of light, but it was enough to see the state of the room.

It had been trashed. Clothing drawers had been pulled from their tracks, the dressers themselves had deep, blood-stained gouges in them. Clothes were strewn across the room, but there was a small mound piled up in a corner, where the strongest bathroom smell emanated. The mirror above the vanity had been cracked, and the shades that had been pulled down from the windows had also been torn to shreds, then hastily hung back up. They didn’t block any of the light, giving him a clear look of the bed.

He choked back another harsh sob.

Two adults lay on the bed, stuck in a solidifying mass of their own liquids. As near as Ed could tell, they had both become bursters, and had starved stuck in this room. They were surrounded by some moldy half-solid liquids. They were now both much thinner than him. He wondered which had come first, the starving or the bursting. It didn’t really matter.

They weren’t moving. He hoped they were dead. He didn’t want to deal with anymore sickos today, he had had his fill. He didn’t want to have to kill his best friend’s parents while their son lay bleeding out downstairs.

He eased through the room, painfully slowly to avoid making any noise. If he could just make it to the bathroom, grab the kit, and make it back out, he could close the door behind him and pretend none of this had ever happened.

He made it to the bathroom. It looked empty. He wondered vaguely where Jack’s sisters were, but as long as they weren’t a threat, they weren’t a problem he was prepared to deal with right now.

He found the kit quickly, underneath the sink behind the hydrogen peroxide. He considered grabbing that, too, but he could only remember it being used on small cuts, cuts that needed only a plaster and a kiss to heal. He suspected Jack’s wounds would require a bit more than that.

First aid kit secured tightly under his armpit, he held his sword out with his free hand and snuck back into the bedroom. He was halfway across the room when he heard groaning from the bed. He froze. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the skeletal figures sit up.

His palm was sweaty. He was suddenly absurdly worried he would drop the sword. The sicko on the bed didn’t move any farther.

Ed slowly turned his head towards the bed.

He had been wrong. Only one of the sickos, Jack’s father by the looks of it, had burst. His mother was skinny as a rail, but she had only been sucked into her husband’s liquid innards. She was sitting straight up now, staring right at him. Her jaw hung open limply - it looked broken - and she was missing several teeth. Her hair had either been pulled out or fallen out and all she had left were a few locks hanging limply from her pockmarked scalp. Her eyes were red-rimmed and streaming, and small scabs ringed the sockets.

With a wet sucking noise, she pulled herself free of the bed and collapsed to the floor.

He didn’t move.

He couldn’t do it.

His breath stuck in his throat. He felt like he was choking. For one blissful second, the adult on the floor didn’t move, and he thought perhaps she couldn’t. Then she uncoiled herself from the ball she’d fallen into and rolled onto her belly.

She was in between him and the door, but he could still make it if he moved now. If his legs would respond. If any part of his body would respond to the screaming in his head. If he could just move.

She was dragging herself toward him. He could see her face. If he ignored the limp jaw, the missing hair, the gurgled breathing, he could imagine she’d just been in the hospital a long time. Feverish, streaming eyes, but nothing unsettlingly human.

His ankle itched. She was digging her nails into his flesh, trying to pull him down. Her wet, hot breath shocked him into motion, away from her. He fell backwards with a cry. The first aid kit went skittering across the room and Ed hit the ground hard.

He scrambled backwards, crying out. He noticed numbly that his ankle was bleeding. She’d torn the skin. It hit him that even that could kill him. These things were disgusting, walking flesh bags of pus and bile. If his ankle got infected, it could kill him, and then he wouldn’t be able to help Jack.

Which was a stupid thought because Jack’s mother would probably eat him before his ankle had the chance to get infected. Which would be horrible for Jack.

Ed’s back hit the wall. His hand landed on something hard next to him. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the sicko crawling towards him, but he could feel the long shape of the hilt of the sword. He grabbed it tight and thrust it forward.

He hit resistance right away, but he growled and pushed harder, sinking the sword deep into the sicko’s chest. He ended up face to face with her. Her breath was hot on his face and smelt of sick. He gagged. She grabbed weakly at the sword in her chest, then sagged against it. She was heavier than Jack had been and when she fell to the floor, she pulled the sword out of his grip.

Ed collapsed on the floor beside her, gasping. He had just killed his best friend’s mother. Fuck this world.

He wanted to lay down and cry. He wanted to curl up and go to sleep. He wanted to get up and discover this was all some sick nightmare and he was back at school. He stood and grabbed the sword hilt. The sword wouldn’t come out easily. He had to plant his foot on Jack’s mother’s stomach to tear it out. Her chest surrendered it with a loud squelch. Ed gagged up more thin bile, wiped his mouth, and stashed the sword in his belt.

It struck him vaguely that he should clean the sword off, but he didn’t have time. He fetched the first aid kit from under the windows, steadfastly refusing to look at the other sicko in the bed, and left the room. The door clicked shut behind him.

He rushed down the stairs, ran back to the bathroom and ducked in, shutting and locking the door.

Jack was still on the toilet, leaning against the wall. He was awake; he had been mumbling to himself, but he stopped when Ed entered.

“You get the stuff?”

“Yeah,” Ed gasped, laying out his findings on the counter.

“You ‘kay?”

He wasn’t. He didn’t bother answering. Jack’s pant leg was stained dark. Ed took a breath to steady himself. He had no idea what he was doing.

“Alright. Alright. I’ve got to. . . .”

Jack stared at him. Ed felt panic start to set in, but he couldn’t succumb to it. He couldn’t freeze up again, not here. Jack needed him, more than ever. Whatever had come over him in the alley, he had to channel that now. _Don’t think about it, Ed_ , he thought, _just do it. Just get it done._

He had to stop the bleeding. “Alright.” he repeated. “I need - I need to see the cut.”

Jack nodded weakly. His birthmark stood out in stark contrast to the pale white of the rest of his face. Ed hoped he was pale from pain and not blood loss, but he didn’t think they would be that lucky.

“Gotta’ knife?”

He only had the sword, but he didn’t want to use that to cut Jack’s pant leg. He didn’t want anymore blades near Jack. He shook his head.

Jack nodded weakly again, then flapped his hand faintly in Ed’s direction. “Help me.”

Ed pulled Jack up to his feet, careful not to let him put anymore weight on his bad leg. Slowly, clumsily, they got Jack’s trousers unbuckled and pulled them down so Ed could get to the gash.

He sat Jack back down on the toilet cover. The cut was deeper than the shots in his side, but not as bad as he had feared. It still made him sick to look at. Ed nodded like he knew what he was doing. “Okay. We need to stop the bleeding.”

Jack was nodding off, exhausted just from the struggle with his jeans. Ed snapped his fingers in his face. “You’ve got to help me, mate. Come on, stay awake.” Jack nodded, blinking slowly.

Ed went to the counter and grabbed a towel. He pushed it into Jack’s hands. “Put this on the cut and press down, try to keep it from bleeding.” Jack didn’t have the strength to do much more than hold the towel on his leg, but if it kept him awake to do something then it was better than nothing.

Ed grabbed Jack’s discarded pants and pulled the belt from them. He knew enough about bad cuts to know the word tourniquet, but that was it. He wasn’t even entirely sure how to make one, but he had some vague notion of being able to use a belt.

“A belt?” Jack mumbled.

“Yeah, I think - I’ve got to make a tourniquet right, stop the bleeding?”

Jack shrugged vaguely, “Fuck’f I know, Ed.” but he released the towel to grip the toilet seat and counter and tried to lower himself to the floor. Ed rushed to help him, holding his waist, careful to avoid the bandages around his belly. Together they got him to the floor. Ed shifted him around so he could lean back against the wall, then took Jack’s hands and pressed them firmly back on the stained towel. “You have to keep pressure on it, we have to stop it from bleeding.”

Jack tried to push his hands away. “I’ve got this,” he muttered.

Ed went back to the belt. He stared at it. He didn’t know where to start.

“Y’need a stick.” Jack slurred.

“What?”

“To twist the tourniquet round. T’stop the bleeding. You need a stick or something.”

Ed nodded frantically. The most sticklike thing he had was the sword. He couldn’t use that. He thought of the movies. What would a film hero do? Probably march upstairs and take one of the sickos’ bones, or break one of the kitchen chairs to use a leg. He didn’t think he had the strength to do that, though.

The kitchen might have something else. “Stay here.”

Jack rolled his eyes. Ed was glad he had the presence of mind to be sarcastic at least. He pointed at the towel. “And hold pressure on that.”

“Aye, aye, cap’n.”

Ed ran to the kitchen. He tore open the drawers. Silverware was too small. But there, a mixing spoon. That might work. He grabbed it and ran back to the bathroom.

He kneeled back down next to Jack. “S’fast.” Jack grunted.

Ed ignored him. He grabbed the belt and wrapped it around Jack’s thigh, above the cut. He tied it tight as he could, trying to block out Jack’s yelping. This would hurt. He had to do it.

He paused. He didn’t know what to do next.

“Stick.” Jack gasped, voice strained. “Gotta’ tie it ‘round the stick ‘n twist it. Cut off the blood.”

Ed nodded. His throat tightened. This would really hurt.

He placed the wooden spoon over the knot. Jack let go of the towel and held the spoon in place for him. He tied the belt over the spoon and then Jack started twisting it, tightening the belt around his leg. He went as far as he could, grunting, then Ed took over and twisted it once more.

Jack grit his teeth. He looked like he was going to be sick, but he was still awake. Still alive. “We need something to . . . to tie it off. Keep it twisted.”

“To hold it in place?”

Jack nodded. He was paler now, and sweating badly. Ed moved back to the pants. Now that they were off Jack, he felt safe taking a sword to them. He cut the right leg off, avoiding the already torn, bloody side. He tied the spoon off with the denim. Jack groaned.

Bleeding hopefully staunched, Ed turned to the next task. He needed the seal the hole in Jack’s leg. He stood and went to the counter and opened the kit. As promised, there were the suture supplies. He grabbed the needle and thread. His hands were shaking.

“Jack?”

Jack had started crying, but he nodded. “Have to, right?”

Ed sat next to Jack’s legs and shifted them around so Jack’s left leg lay across his lap. He measured out a sizeable length of thread and bit it off. He threaded the needle. “I’ll try to be fast.”

Jack pulled his good leg up to his chest and hugged it tight. He stuck his fist in his mouth and bit down hard.

Ed squeezed the two sides of the gash together and pushed the needle through the flesh on one end of the wound. Jack’s leg jerked and he gagged on his hand.

Ed was sweating now, too. “You have to stay still, Jack.”

He whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut. He was crying harder now. Ed had never seen Jack cry before, not even after a lifetime of skinned knees and broken bones, football games and schoolyard fights. He pulled the needle down and pushed it through again, next to the first puncture site.

Jack cried out, but Ed ignored him. As long as he didn’t move around, as long as he didn’t pull the stitches, as long as everything went okay.

He wiped his brow and held Jack’s leg tight. He pushed the needle through, again. Jack sobbed around his hand, biting down fiercely. Ed was pretty sure he saw blood - Jack had probably broken the skin - but that wasn’t his worry now. Jack biting his hand was the least of their worries right now.

In the end, it took him almost an hour. Between Jack’s muffled screams, Ed having to hold his leg down, and Ed wanting to get the cut as tightly closed as possible, it was the longest hour of Ed’s life. His hands were shaking and he was pouring sweat, but he was finally done.

The stitches looked horrible and the cut was a lumpy, meandering mess. It would leave a huge, nasty scar, but it was closed and the bleeding had slowed. Jack was shaking, too, but he was alive.

“Fuck, Ed.” Jack groaned.

“We’ve still got to bandage it.”

Jack winced and nodded. A tear fell out of his eye. “Alright,” he gasped. “Alright, just give me a second.”

Ed nodded. He hated seeing Jack like this. Jack was supposed to be the tough one. Iron Jack. Jack was the hero, not Ed, but here they were. “I’m going to go find some tape, like duct tape or something. We need to bandage your leg, get the towels to stick.”

He stood up, and Jack reached for his hands. “Help me up, Ed.”

“Jack, you can’t be walking on your leg right now.”

“I know. Help me up. I want to sit on the couch, on my own couch in my own home.”

Ed hesitated. He didn’t want to mess up Jack’s leg more than it already was. But he hated seeing Jack like this, crying and shaking and weak. It was wrong. It was like looking in a mirror, and he hated what he saw. Fear did not become Jack.

He grabbed Jack’s forearm and pulled him up. “Don’t put any weight on it.” He pulled Jack’s arm across his shoulders and held him up as best as he could. Jack hopped along, leaning on him heavily, and eventually they got him out into the front room. Ed lay him on the couch and Jack stretched out, keeping his bad leg up.

“Just relax, alright? The house is clear. I’m just going to go look for tape.” He ran back to the bathroom and grabbed a clean towel. He brought it back to Jack and instructed him to hold it on the cut. Jack obeyed wordlessly. It was wrong. It was all wrong, everything about this was so fucked up, but Ed could only try to fix Jack right now, so that was what he was going to do.

The kitchen and its junk drawers promised what he needed. He rummaged through them and found some plastic wrap. That would work. It would have to.

He ran back to the living room. Jack was sitting up on the couch, hugging himself tightly and crying openly.

Ed hesitated, watching him from the hall. He felt like he was intruding, but Jack didn’t try to hide. He was staring at the family photos on the mantle across the room.

“Why did this have to happen? All of this, this shit?” Jack turned to him, like he might actually have an answer.

Ed moved to the couch and sat down next to him. “I don’t know.” He shrugged lamely. He put his arms around him and hugged him tight. Jack sank heavily into him.

He nodded weakly, sniffing. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. Okay.” He lay his head on Ed’s shoulder and they sat in silence.

Ed didn’t know how to comfort him. He had so often found himself on the receiving end of Jack’s tough love, he didn’t know how to take care of someone else.

Finally he sat back and grabbed the plastic wrap. “Let me wrap your leg.” Jack stared at him emptily, but he didn’t move to stop him. Ed pressed the towel flat against the cut and the mixing spoon tourniquet and wrapped it tight with the plastic wrap. It wouldn’t do for a permanent fix, but it would keep the wound covered for now.

Ed sat back on his heels and took a deep breath. He had done all he knew to do. Now they just had to wait and see. They locked eyes. Jack’s were still wet, but for all that had happened Ed found his own miraculously dry. Bam was dead. They were separated from the rest of their friends. He didn’t know if Jack would survive the night. But he couldn’t cry. He’d emptied himself out.

“Come on.” He rose to his feet and got to work on pulling Jack up.

“W-what?”

“You’re going to sleep in a real bed tonight. Your bed.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

It took them a long time. They were both exhausted, and Jack couldn’t hop up the stairs. Eventually they sat him down and together they inched up the stairs backwards, one step at a time. They lay for a while at the top, catching their breath, then got up again.

Jack stared at his parents’ bedroom door as they passed, but he didn’t stop and he didn’t ask, so Ed didn’t say anything. He listened closely as they walked by, but he didn’t hear anything from the room. They were both dead.

Jack’s room was the one at the end of the hallway. It was instantly recognizable by both the large, bloody skull-and-crossbones KEEP OUT sign and the sheer amount of time Ed had spent at Jack’s house over holidays.

They finally stumbled into it an eternity later. It was like stepping into an alternate reality, one untouched by the shit of their world.

The only sign that anything was unusual was the layer of dust spread gently over everything, and even this was to be expected when Jack was away at school. The sun outside was setting now, and the dim light coming in through the window cast the room in a hazy, twilight glow. Ed balanced Jack on his shoulder and flipped the light switch. Nothing. Of course.

Jack’s bedroom was just as it was the last time they had seen it. Bed against the wall, posters peeling, books tossed haphazardly across the desk. Jack had a ton of posters, Lady Gaga, Banksy, _Casino Royale_ , Manchester United, Harry Potter, on and on. He had even more books, scattered across his desk, stacked on the bookshelf, strewn across the room, comics and novels alike.

Ed and Jack hopped over to the bed. They passed Jack’s trophy shelf and a photograph caught Ed’s eye amid the intense variety of trophies Jack had won. The photo was of them, right off a win from the football tournament in Holland. They were tiny, only twelve, and Ed still had long hair in the photo. It was the only photo of him with his hair long that he let Jack keep - they looked too happy in the photo, arms flung easily around one another, grinning openly and flushed from a long and successful match.

Jack caught him staring. “That was a long time ago.”

Ed lowered Jack onto the bed and shuffled him around until he was propped up on the pillows, then sat down next to him. “Yeah.” He tugged on his hair self-consciously.

Jack snorted. “Back when you were pretty.”

“Hey!” Ed laughed and punched him lightly in the shoulder. Jack groaned in mock pain, and clutched his arm. Ed was glad he felt well enough to joke. He didn’t think he’d be able to in the same position.

Jack looked back at the photo. “Wish we could go back. Be little again.”

Ed patted his good knee. “You and me both.”

Jack turned to him. He frowned suddenly. “You look like shit.”

“Huh?”

Jack raised a hand to his face, hovering his index finger over the gash running down Ed’s cheek. “Greg do this?”

“He got you worse.”

“I’m bandaged up, now. You don’t feel this?”

“Not yet. It’ll kill in the morning, I’m sure.”

“It’s gonna’ leave a nasty scar.” He let his finger fall, resting it just below Ed’s eye. “It’s fucked up your eye, too.”

Ed didn’t answer. He didn’t really want to talk about it. He stared around the room, taking in the frozen monument to a much different time. Then he remembered something.

He got up and crossed the room. “You’re going to lose your good looks, mate.” Jack continued. “Be like Two-Face or something.”

“Come off it, it’s not nearly that bad.”

“Maybe not, but it is bad. I’m taken care of now, you really should look after yourself.”

Ed found what he was looking for. There in the corner was Jack’s toy box. He kneeled down in front of it and began searching through Jack’s Bionicles, Legos, and Warhammer figurines. He’d figured it’d be in here, but there were no stuffed toys in the box. He stood and surveyed the room.

“Ed? You listening?”

There, atop the wardrobe, was an old, torn cardboard box. Maybe that was it.

He got the box down with some effort - his shoulders really were going to be the death of him after today. He pulled it open. Jackpot. It was full of stuffed toys, all sorts of soft, cuddly animals, but most importantly - a big dog, with long, warm ears and a happy smile. One ear was almost bald. Ed smiled.

_Floppy Dog_.

He stood and brought it over to Jack. Jack stared at him, mouth agape, then took the dog and held it close. He coughed, trying not to cry again, but his chin was beginning to wobble dangerously. Ed crawled across the bed to sit next to him and wrapped his arms around him, holding him close. Jack crushed Floppy Dog to his chest, leaned into Ed, and let himself sob.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Ed.” Ed rubbed his back. He made small, shushing noises. “I’m sorry I called you a coward. You’re not, I was just mad. You’re very brave. You got us home. You brought me home and you - you stitched me up, Ed, you - you -” He hiccoughed. “You’re my best friend, Ed.”

Ed pressed a kiss to his temple. “You’re my best friend, too, Jack. You always will be.”

They didn’t speak the rest of the night. Ed held Jack as he cried. Jack held fast to Floppy Dog and to Ed and wondered at how Ed - his Ed Carter - had the stones to go through this day and end it without a tear in his eye. What a world they lived in now, where Ed could kill sickos and drag Jack home and sew his bloody leg back up, and Jack couldn’t hold his old stuffed dog without curling up and crying.

They certainly had changed.

They fell asleep like that, Floppy Dog in Jack’s arms, Jack in Ed’s arms, tears drying on Jack’s cheeks and blood caking down Ed’s face. The light in the window slowly faded around them, until they were sleeping in the dark, the outside lit by the stars, more stars than had been seen in the city in who knew how long. They were very small, just the two of them curled up in Jack’s bed, but they were still alive. They were going to make it.

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting in my drafts for a whole damn year now, so I'm finally getting off my ass and putting it back up
> 
> fun facts! when I was rereading it I noticed I seemed to have made an accidental infinity war/peter's death reference - I checked the date and I actually wrote this a month before infinity war came out, so @marvel pay up, bitch
> 
> also, I had big (too big) hopes of this being the first chapter of a whole extended au thing with Jack living and the effects of that, but that ain't gonna' happen bc time and school, so I'll just spill a few of the deets: Jack lives, but bc tourniquets aren't actually that great, he ends up with nerve paralysis and uses a brace and cane later on; Ed gets them both back to the group, but they get split up on the bridge bc Jack has to stay in the truck - Jack and Brooke share roles at the museum; and more changes roll out from there (like Ed leaving the Tower sooner to find Jack)
> 
> finally, much smaller, it's obvi super not canon, but I've always read Ed as a trans boy - the small bit with the picture and his longer hair when he was younger, plus Jack's friendly digging, is a reference to that


End file.
